When a STALKER kidnaps a SERIAL KILLER...
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In a twisted game of cat and mouse, a young woman becomes dangerously entangled with a masked serial killer she has been obsessively stalking, leading to a bizarre and clandestine...
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IT'S WEIRD HOW quickly you can get used to things you never thought you would. Like blood on the floor.
This morning, when I stepped out of bed and noticed the sun shining through the curtained windows in the living room, I wasn't planning on cleaning up after a murdered mutilated corpse. But here I am, mop in hand, standing over the left-over bloodstains.
It's funny how the human eye zeroes in on the color, isn't it? Like a neon sign flashing "DON'T MISS THIS." It's pooling on the tiles like someone knocked over a bucket of red paint. Real paint, not the kind I could wash away with a scrub brush.
I glance down at the mop and then back at the blood. "Alright," I say aloud, more to myself than anyone, "let's do this. Get it over with."
I start with the easy stuff-just the edges, where it's thickest, like some kind of cheap horror movie set. Blood really is a pain in the ass to clean up, isn't it? It stains the grout, which is the last thing I need right now. There's something darkly poetic about it-how the white tiles suck it in, like the floor is a sponge for the worst kind of sins.
I bend down to mop up some more. It feels wrong, like I should be doing something more, but I'm not. I can't. Can't even call the police or anyone I know. It's supposed to be a secret between me and the chemist and the serial killer in my basement. Thinking about it now sounds like it's a setup for a really bad joke.
Well, uh, it's actually a really bad joke, or else I wouldn't be cringing this hard right now...
As I scrub, I start humming a little tune to keep myself from thinking about the situation too much. A little "do-do-do" under my breath, trying to convince myself that this is just another Monday morning cleaning project. Maybe it's a little sick to hum while you're cleaning up someone's blood, but honestly? It's the only thing keeping me sane at this point. If I let myself get too freaked out, I'm going to start imagining the blood seeping into the walls and the floorboards, like it's haunting the place. And I don't need that.
So I mop. And mop. And mop some more, wiping away the crimson streaks as though they'll never come back. There's something oddly therapeutic about it - maybe it's the rhythm, or maybe it's just the fact that I'm so DONE with the whole mess. I mean, who wouldn't be? It's not even my fault the guy bled all over my tiles. WELL - OKEY, a little bit my fault, but it's ENTIRELY his fault for coming here in my house unannounced.
The tiles are starting to look clean again, or at least cleaner than they did five minutes ago, when the blood was splattered everywhere like a Jackson Pollock gone terribly wrong. I take a step back, eyeing the scene.
I glance at the clock. Another thirty minutes, and I'll probably be able to finish this up. At least the cleanup's going well.
"Well," I say out loud, still trying to keep things light, "I better buy a new bleach..."
